


Awake, Arise, Or Be Forever Fall'n

by Petyrs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: F/M, His Dark Materials AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:25:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1691525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petyrs/pseuds/Petyrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When lies are all that keep one alive, how do you cope with a soul exposed for all to see?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awake, Arise, Or Be Forever Fall'n

     The parties passed more smoothly now that the farce of a romance with Joffrey had been brought to a grinding, _emphatic_ halt. His mother continued to grimace delicately over a crystalline champagne flute at every inquiry as to the extent of the _poor Stark girl’s_ stay, though such gestures were easily avoided by ducking into empty hallways or shuttered rooms. Of which there were many from which to choose, the house all but sprawling in the choked confines of London.  Ankou, however, made matters more complicated than a simple disappearance; it was not so long ago that he might perch upon her shoulder as a twittering bluebird, or scurry into a pocket, the furred tail of a dormouse swishing out of sight. But now, settled evermore into the loping form of a wolf, so abnormally large as to bring to mind mastiffs or Great Danes, the silvery-grey daemon drew eyes equal parts wary and admiring wherever the girl ventured.

     However undesirable her presence had become, it could not be allowed to mar the near-weekly soirees at which the Baratheons made sparse attempts to appear the charming couple, and none whatsoever to conceal the indulgence of spirits required to maintain such a façade. Gowns and cosmetics were dumped unceremoniously in her room from time to time, joined by the less valuable of Cersei’s jewels whenever those invited demanded a heightened presentation. Such an evening had not come tonight; though the guests certainly did not hail from _undesirable_ pedigrees, they remained a herd of customary socialites, customary officials, _customary_ ornamentation in a life of _exceptional_ wealth. Now it was a silken dress of unadorned cobalt, whose character derived from the flounced skirt and barest wink of periwinkle beneath, that graced the girl’s figure, narrow straps buried under tumbles of auburn waves. A glittering collar, gifted after his settling, formed a handsome halo about Ankou’s muzzle. Rarely, if ever, did daemons abide such a treatment, yet so long as puerile attempts to _clothe_ or _leash_ the poor creature were not repeated, he bore the adornment with stoic grace.

     “Why are we bothering with the _library_ again?” arose the wolf’s mutter from her hip. “Our room is just as close on the other side of the house.” To Sansa’s other side, a weasel raised its head with sniffing nose while his human continued to chatter away. “ _Shush_.” Fresh-lacquered nails, never bolder than a dusky pink, curled between leather and pelt in the gentlest pull. “Visiting the library is just wandering around,” she explained lowly, though the daemon required no insight. “In our room we’re _avoiding_ the guests.” A chuffing noise deep in Ankou’s throat betrayed the reality that _any_ maneuver in the crowded manse amounted to tactful elusion. Crossing the threshold into a hall dimmed to discourage drunken wandering, a lavender-haired woman started to exclaim at the _remarkable creature_ padding by; it took no more than an apologetic shake of head, paired with unoccupied fingers fluttering as though to indicate some matter of urgency to pull the girl onwards undisturbed. Darkness enveloped daemon and human alike, lupine irises glinting viridian in what miniscule light they caught.

     While the passage softened noises of revelry and boasting, once the door met its frame with a muffled thump, the library’s paneled walls muted them entirely. Only a heaving sigh, gusting from Sansa’s chest, filled the lofty space. Though Ankou made at once for one of the plush reading sofas at its front, she instead steered them both deeper into the space; never one to forgo luxury, the carpeting of Robert Baratheon’s ill-used repository made for a soft enough cushion, with the added benefit of stretching deep into the room. What intruders might be expected could only be drunken paramours, easily distracted by the first available surface. No one had any cause to venture where Sansa did, the shelves innumerable rows back, housing the rarest – and thus, least useful – tomes of her hosts’ collection. Among them hid a stunningly illuminated collection of fables, several books on naturalism, along with countless novels of great age and no interest. Sansa dared touch but a fraction of them, what few looked sturdy enough to withstand an amateur’s handling.

     “Ankou, _stop_.” The daemon’s snuffling, wet nose had nudged up against the book of fairy tales in silent demand. “You’ll ruin the binding.” Lowering to his haunches, the great wolf leaned heavily against her as fingers far more delicate than damp nostrils began to work her quarry free from its position on the shelf. At first covered by the sound of leather creaking and sliding, once the book settled to her lap upon the floor, Sansa barely discerned the dry rustling of wings somewhere above and behind her. _Joffrey_. The boy delighted in leaving one window or another open to the multitudinous pigeons nesting about London’s rooftops; inevitably his mother shrieked over the leavings found in their wake, yet his true pleasure came in the stalking indulgence of his daemon, Kakia, a vicious jackal half the size of her own wolf. Though the pitiable little birds were never slaughtered, some died of fright all the same before a servant could usher them back through the parted panes of glass.

     Her daemon whined softly. “I’m no good at catching birds,” Sansa muttered. “And neither are you, even if you bothered to clamber up all those shelves for a closer look.” A perturbed shaking of his muzzle remained Ankou’s sole reply. Though its cover was opened, a favored story swiftly found, the book’s entertainments were met with a heavy sigh after only a few moments of tense silence between the pair. “ _Fine_.” Carpet rustled as she shoved the tome from her lap. “I can at least crack the window at the front. Maybe it’s smart enough to find its own way out.” Then girl and daemon alike rounded back to the broad isle, her teetering on stilettos, him padding along at her side, when the rustling came again, far closer this time.

     Just before her, on the marble bust of a philosopher placed at the end of one shelf for aesthetic appeal alone, a songbird alighted. Not a songbird --- a _daemon_. This was no cruel jape of Joffrey’s, another person had entered the library! Or else was there all along, another guest seeking reprieve. “ _Remarkable_.” Wings spread and the bird descended with a practiced glide to perch on the wolf’s nose. Though Ankou snorted, he did not buck the sudden guest. “Such a powerful beast for such a lissome young woman. I don’t believe I’ve met anything like _you_ before.” Another gust of air huffed out of his nostrils. Sansa spared one glance to either side, still seeing no sign of whomever the bird accompanied; with its trilling voice, however, she could at least suspect it was a _man_ that lurked in shadowy aisles. _I thought only witches had such daemons as that_ , Sansa reflected with furrowed brow. Certainly it made little sense for another to have a winged companion, so closely tethered to humans bound firmly to the soil.

     “I must apologize for Persephone,” a voice with the same sort of false joviality Cersei put on rang out to her left. “Always so curious, but regrettably _overeager_ at times.” At the criticism, his daemon’s wings jutted out irritably, a flash of their patterning caught by the girl’s eye before the bird took to the air once more and eloped upon the shoulder of a stranger emerging from the shelves. “She’s a mockingbird, isn’t she? Your daemon?” While uncommon in a city forested by stone and metal, the deceptive fowl nested all around her father’s estate in the north. Oftentimes it was the call of a mockingbird, or several chattering away, that awoke her once spring prized apart winter’s grasp. The man – hardly taller than she, looking well at ease in slacks of charcoal wool and a shirt woven from emerald fabric inclined to catch the light of scattered reading lamps, with chestnut hair dusted in grey at the temples and celadon eyes – smirked, head dipping slightly in concession. “And I would call yours a wolf, though that seems an insufficient moniker. Despite her lack of manners, Persephone has the right of things: he is a _magnificent_ sight.”

     The words, familiar though they were, felt far different when spoken with sly smile and eyes crinkled as if amused by so dichotomous a pairing. Sansa could not help the feeling of discomfort twisting an empty belly; where drunken officials or cooing grandmothers spared only the swiftest glance for Ankou before their attention turned firmly to the _girl_ , this man seemed transfixed, unable or unwilling to meet her gaze in favor of studying the wolf pressed close to her thigh. _He is my closest friend_ , she thought to say, _and it would do you well not to stare_. Yet for the weight of grey-green, no motion was made to touch; only her fingers remained curled into the daemon’s fur, a reassuring clutch and release at his nape. Silence hung heavily between the pair – the quadrat, in truth – for several long moments: the man and his bird watching intently the slow-growing unease of girl and wolf. “ --- I cannot recall having seen you before. Here, at one of Mrs. Baratheon’s parties,” Sansa ventured when the quiet at last turned oppressive. “Then again, as crowded as they often become, I doubt introductions are made to even half her guests.” Particularly in the case of a an uncooperative, unwanted ward, who sequestered herself in spare rooms at every opportunity; regardless of the matriarch’s disinclination to further Sansa’s social standing, the young lady did very little to rectify what predicament she found herself in.

     Lips pursed in rueful half-smile, he shook his head in agreement. “My work often keeps me from accepting many of your mother-in-law’s gracious invitations.” Before any more excuses could be offered, Sansa interjected, “She isn’t my mother-in-law! I mean…I only meant, Joffrey and I are _far_ from married.” _Thank God_. “Soon-to-be, then,” he conceded. “Goodness knows it must happen one day or another.” At her side, Ankou let out a growling cough, tempting towards a snarl before she shushed him once more. “There is no engagement,” Sansa admitted, gaze firmly fixed on one of her wolf’s ears. “Not for quite a long time now. But it would appear… _improper_ to turn out the last Stark.” The last _known_ Stark, she might have qualified, yet so much time had already passed. How could any of them still draw breath, to not seek out their sister by now? “ _Most_ improper.” On his shoulder, the mockingbird stirred. “My condolences, then…or congratulations,” he amended as Ankou’s tail began to bristle, “whichever the case may be.”

     No civil reply seemed possible and so, as she often did, Sansa chose instead to remain silent. Her companion remained unfazed. “ _I_ know who _you_ are, and you’ve had the pleasure of Persephone’s uncouth greeting…but I myself have been remiss. Petyr Baelish,” he offered, careful to avoid brushing Ankou as he leaned over the wolf, right hand extended. “I have been anxious to meet you for rather a long time, Miss Stark.” His palm was dry, fingers curling over hers in a gentle squeeze of greeting. “And this is Ankou,” she said in turn, breezing past the opportunity to give Baelish the luxury of her given name. Persephone hopped into a graceful fall, feet latching to the wolf’s collar; his head turned to sniff at the bird once more, an impossible task until she fluttered to the ground, holding still as a thorough examination was performed. “He can be wary of strangers.” An explanation, though far from an apology. “How else are we to get to know one another, hm?” Petyr countered. Unruffled by the daemon’s ill-disguised skepticism, his body shifted until the two creatures were firmly behind him. Sansa could see nothing more than the tail of her wolf, sweeping in short strokes along the floor; the rest of her vision was Petyr, eyes flickering in an attempt to catch her own.

     “I’m sorry. I don’t like not seeing him. Joffrey, sometimes he…” No, that was a breach of etiquette she would be in a great deal of trouble for revealing. Even his mother, apathetic though she was to the girl’s comfort, veered dangerously close to scandalized when word of her son’s behavior reached her ears. “Sometimes he _what_ , my dear?” The hand not offered as introduction cupped her elbow, drawing them closer while Baelish turned them as well; now a swift glance to Sansa’s periphery reassured her of the daemon’s presence, always felt. Persephone now explored him in turn, beak a soft grazing along his cheeks, his throat, his ears. “He…” Petyr’s fingers gripped tighter, forcing the girl’s attention to move from daemon to man. “Sometimes he’ll touch Ankou,” she blurted. A deep furrow appeared between Baelish’s brows. “He’ll grab his scruff or pull his tail or drag him away until I have to follow --- !”

     Sansa cut herself off with a gasp. An open secret the treatment might be, yet never had she confessed it so openly, to a _stranger_ nonetheless. Feeling the jarring urge to cry, sapphire fell away to their shoes, his a gleaming black patent and hers a confluence of silvery straps, until the burning sensation passed. The panic of her mind, however, never reached the girl’s breast, which remained oddly calm as Petyr stood before her, stiff-limbed and still of tongue. Beside the pair, Persephone had nested against the troubled wolf’s neck, feathers ruffling and wings shifting until the bird maintained a steady press against his cheek. “That must hurt you a great deal,” Petyr murmured. “It must hurt you _both_.” When she lifted her arm free, still staring at the ground, he made no motion to follow. The daemons remained unmoving at their sides, his wedged close to hers. “You can’t tell anyone,” Sansa begged of the ground. “Joffrey is their oldest son, he’ll inherit one day, if people _knew_ …” And who should tell? Not his parents, certainly, and the help knew better than to divulge family secrets. Only Sansa, the outsider, the unwanted, could possibly reveal what they hoped to keep tucked away. “I am _exceptionally_ talented when it comes to the business of keeping secrets, my dear.” Ankou’s tail thumped, though he still remained prone against the seemingly resposed mockingbird. Index and middle of one hand jutted out, found the soft underside of her chin, and coaxed Sansa to look at him once more.

     “It shall remain between you and I, no matter how _reprehensible_ I find it.” She nodded once in thanks, Baelish’s hand dropping away to skate along her arm. Goose prickles rose up at the grazing touch, a lone finger sweeping from elbow to shoulder in contemplative arcs. All the while Petyr watched as she gazed back in return, unsure of what to look for, or if he would even reveal it should she so desire. “Do you wish to leave, Sansa?” A hard squeeze of blue met the question, posed as casually as an inquiry over the weather. “Would you be happier, living elsewhere?” With a whisper of flesh on flesh, Sansa jerked her arm free and gained distance with two quick steps. “Whatever Mrs. Baratheon told you, whatever she asked you to say,” she warned, “I’m _happy_ here. Joffrey was nothing more than a misunderstanding, it’s settled now. If you tell her any differently I’ll say you’re lying.”

     Baelish followed her second withdrawal, hands clasped tightly about each arm; firm enough to restrain, light enough to avoid pain, not unlike the digging purchase Persephone soon leapt to find along Ankou’s spine. “I offer it myself, out of concern alone.” _You have no cause to worry over me_ , Sansa thought, squirming in unyielding grip. “Your mother and I were friends, long ago. Perhaps too long ago. But I would not stand idly by, to witness her daughter cowed beneath the sort who keep you now.” His stare was unrelenting, demanding it be met with one of her own. “If you find happiness here, then stay. If but the smallest trace of misery haunts your days, however…Come away. You would be comfortable, _safe_ , under my care.”

     “They would never let me, Cersei would never – “ Sansa’s protests went unheard. “Would never grant the financial responsibility of your keep to such a _loyal friend_ as myself?” Chestnut arched above amused green. Ankou scoffed. “Their _friend_? Jackals are easier to tussle with than birds.” To demonstrate, the wolf shook himself from head to tail, at last forcing Persephone into flight with an irritable chirp. “Your mother never told _us_ about him, Sansa. Some _friendship_ , with no pictures or stories.” Her daemon had spoken; nothing remained but to allow him his retort. Baelish’s lips did not part until the songbird returned, folding herself delicately upon the curve of one shoulder. “We did not part on…amicable terms, for which I do not fault her. Whatever doubt she held in her heart about me, Sansa, I assure you of this: _my_ affection for her never waned. Say but one word, and I shall see to it that you are never touched again.”

     Perhaps Baelish finally remembered himself, or perhaps it was a show of good faith: immediately, he unhanded the girl, heels clicking together as he stepped back. “One word, Miss Stark. Ankou,” he added with a decorous tilt of chin. Falling to her knees, arms open in a clear gesture of welcome, Sansa took the wolf up against her in a fierce hug. All the better, admittedly, to hear his whisper. “He can’t be worse than Joffrey. No one can.” She squeezed him tighter. “And the bird?”

     “Kind. _Too_ kind. But I should rather weather an excess of kindness, than spend another day here.” Nothing else need be said; if one irrefutable fact of her stay in the Baratheon household existed, it was that of the son’s unconscionable cruelty. “ _Alright_ ,” she whispered into a grey pelt. “Alright.” Ankou raised up from his haunches, helping the girl to find her feet. Beside her human’s neck, the mockingbird twittered amiably. One word was desired, one word was given. Beyond that, Sansa stood at a loss. Baelish filled the void seamlessly, chuffing Persephone beneath her chin as he turned, opening a clear path towards the library’s front.  “Though it would be presumptive of me to assure you of contentment in my home, I _will_ promise you _sanctuary_.” Green slanted towards the wolf. “Such a majestic sight does not belong in a cage. You will hear from me soon, Miss Stark, with tidings I hope you shall find pleasing.” For the final time that evening, he reached out to her. Fingers cupped hers, bringing one hand to his lips in a chaste kiss of farewell. Petyr’s daemon swooped downward, wingtip brushing Ankou’s cheek before she ascended to glide in ellipses above his head. “The pleasure has already been mine,” she breathed, and then it was a set of shoulders and tail feathers bearing away from her until the library door opened and shut again with a soft click.

     “What do you think, Ankou? Am I as stupid as I feel?”

     “I think they want something.” _To hurt us?_ “Something more important than that.”

     “ _Is_ there anything more important than that?” _Than absolute power?_

     “Something is, I just can’t figure out what. But that bird…trust her before you trust him.”

     “Why?”

     “She can’t lie like he can. And I know how she felt, against me.” In time, perhaps, Sansa would understand the feeling her daemon could give no voice to, the feeling Petyr could not express. Time, as ever, remained her only recourse.


End file.
